


The Case of the Transylvanian Spy

by Schuldig



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-21
Updated: 2008-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:16:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1628648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schuldig/pseuds/Schuldig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes/Watson roadtrip in Eastern Europe. Almost imperceptible slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Transylvanian Spy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Zarnitsa, who requested a Holmes/Watson roadtrip fic for Yuletide 2008.

 

 

I fancifully call this matter "The Case of the Transylvanian Spy", and Sherlock Holmes will correctly indicate that he had no input into the title. These reminiscences contain no special insight into the human condition, not does it initially seem to shed light on Holmes' brilliant reasoning. I am sure he would rather forget certain instances of the entire case. Despite this, it does, I feel, illuminate an area of our relationship that played a role in future, more famous cases. For that very reason, I have arranged for this section of my memoirs to be released only after my death.

My good friend has neither encouraged nor discouraged me in this regard and I fear that while he may be capable of a flicker of emotion, the acknowledgement of that is still beyond his capacity.

This tale begins on a winter morning in mid-December. On this morning I had woken earlier than usual and was thinking I should go to Harrods for a Christmas gift for our landlady. I could hear Holmes finishing up breakfast downstairs and the sound comforted me. We had become quite used to each other's habits and manners, and I have listed Holmes' in detail elsewhere.

The clatter of breakfast stopped suddenly at the sound of a curiously-pitched voice. "I say, Mr. Holmes. Your landlady let me in when I explained the urgency of this problem. I hope I haven't disturbed you."

"Not at all," I heard Holmes say. "How could my most enduring client disturb me?"

There was a pause as the man I now presumed to be Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard gathered his thoughts. In truth, I think Holmes is fond of Lestrade as his appearance always signals the arrival of a mystery that had already baffled London's finest. Despite Holmes' scorn of his abilities, the cases he brought us were never simple.

I did not hear the opening small talk as I was pulling on my clothes at speed. I hurried through my morning routine and dashed down the stairs only to see the Inspector readying himself to leave. His small mouth was curved into a frown while his eyes lacked the usual eager spark. He looked in all ways like a man who has just received a disappointing diagnosis.

He nodded at me once out of politeness before Mrs Hudson showed him the door. Wrapped up in his jacket as he stepped into a flurry of snow outside, he seemed rather like a ferret in its winter fur. 

I turned to see Holmes waiting at the top of the flight of stairs.

"I say, Holmes. Lestrade seemed terribly disappointed. What did you tell him?"

"That I would not be taking on his case," Holmes said with a wave of his hand.

"Too much of a challenge, or not enough of one?" I asked, thinking I already knew the answer.

"Neither," he replied. "I have decided to travel around Eastern Europe instead. 

"Instead of a case? Surely you can't be serious!"

"I've heard a number of sensational stories about what lies in that area." Holmes turned away. It was already decided.

"Yes, a book seems to have excited a number of impressionable people." I had heard talk of this, but was surprised at his sudden interest in contemporary literature that wasn't utterly lurid. "I read in The Daily Mail that Mr. Stoker should be considered equal to Poe."

My dear friend adjusted his shirt sleeves and I realised I must have overestimated his interest. "Yes, quite. I have already planned a route that will take me through Paris and across Europe."

"When?"

"When?" Holmes smiled. "I intend to catch the train from Paddington this very morning!"

I felt sick to my stomach. He was proposing to leave me alone at Christmas, with all its temptations for a bachelor. I might as well return to the days before I met Sherlock Holmes and split rent with him. I immediately began calculating home much of my monthly income I could afford to lose to gambling over the New Year holiday season.

My friend didn't note my distress and strode towards the second floor study. "Tally ho!" said he. "Our train leaves at eleven thirty. Let us go before Gregson shows his face too!"

***

I checked his luggage before we left. I confess I had thought to remove the bottle and syringe of cocaine that would surely be there. To my surprise, I did not see it and my friend was not one to hide his habit. I wondered how he intended to pass the time without this crutch of his. Did he not realise the length of time we would spend travelling? Surely his great mind had calculated the distances involved? It was not something I was prepared to complain about, although my curiosity was piqued.

Sherlock Holmes seemed in high spirits as we boarded the omnibus just before the Romanian border. We had previously made good speed using European railways, but now we had to travel through less familiar territory on less familiar vehicles. Although we had seats inside the 'bus, I was still required to sit next to Holmes and our fellow passengers for longer than I had ever done in the past.

I noted the difference in demeanour and posture of these people from those of our past journeys and felt a wave of disquiet. Many of them had crucifixes and other cures for vampires as described in sensational literature. One young man had a garlic flower pinned to his chest. Out of all of them, only a young lady caught my eye. She was well-attired with a dress just a little too fancy for a route like this. Her smile was regal; slight, but with gentleness for those beneath her. This time, I wavered about approaching my 'princess' (I referred to her as this in my notes as I did not know her name yet). While I could certainly imagine myself assisting her on and off the carriage and helping through what must be a rare and difficult journey for her, everyone was entirely too close in the tiny 'bus. A lady must never be in a position to realise a man's faults too soon.

In any case, I felt uneasy at the sight of this group; while I didn't fear 'vampires', I had a certain fear of lunatics. Although outside my field of study, a fellow doctor had once shown me around the notorious Bethlem Royal Hospital and so I have seen with my own eyes the destruction such delusions bring. I resolved to move my pistol from my luggage to somewhere more accessible.

This stage of the journey was fine, at first. As we travelled into the heart of Eastern Europe, Sherlock Holmes filled in a handful of details that Lestrade had left with him. A Russian spy was reported to have left Britain with documents that would embarrass the British royal family if revealed. The spy had been followed to Paris, where he had disappeared.

"And your coming to Eastern Europe has nothing to do with Lestrade's case?" I asked.

Holmes regarded me with an amused look and said nothing. I knew not to probe him more when one of these moods takes him and we lapsed into silence for a good number of hours. Although the scenery outside the 'bus was beautiful, as if it were straight out of a Christmas card, I found myself lost without a room to which to retire.

It was around that time Holmes and I had our first falling out. I had been doing nothing of import when Holmes' voice cried out: "Watson! Will you cease that infernal racket?"

I struggled to understand to what he could be referring. "I was humming a violin piece. You played it yourself a few nights ago. It goes something like this--" I hummed it again, louder this time.

"Does it really? In truth I did not recognise it and I have a good ear for these things."

Our conversation lapsed once more and remained so until night fell. As the horses slowed to a walk, I surveyed the snow-laden village from the carriage. Even if I say so myself, it was as I have always imagined it. Tiny houses, with a flicker of light from one in the centre, which could only be the inn.

"You are perhaps the only man who could discomfit me simply by remaining silent." My head jerked upwards at this sudden comment from Holmes after many hours of silence. I looked across to see his pale face drawn into an unreadable expression.

We arrived next to a stable. Sherlock Holmes walked down the centre of the 'bus, using his athletic skill to push ahead and position himself in such a place to allow my 'princess' to disembark with grace. He took her hand as she stepped down, with all the gentle charm usually possessed by myself.

***

I broached the subject at breakfast. We were staying in a small inn run by a family who had lived their whole lives in this tiny village in the Transylvanian region, or Ardeal, as the Romanians themselves call it. I was regaling Homes with my observations on Romanian life compared to the pace of life in London, and that I had considered writing a monograph on the subject. When a lull in the conversation was reached, I brought about the matter of the 'princess'.

"Holmes, I can't help but notice your sudden interest in that young lady."

"Miss Chalker? Of course, Watson. She is most intriguing. Did you know that she was a governess in London?"

"I say! This isn't like you at all," I spluttered, failing to hide my confusion and both his feelings and his manner of expressing them. I didn't even question how he knew her name as that was typical behaviour.

Reasoning backwards, as Holmes likes to describe it, I could only assume this was some new drug. Despite my years of experience, however, I could not name it. Disinterest in old friends, yet increased interest in the fairer sex? I may as well simply describe it as 'love'.

I like to think I play some part in Holmes' investigations. While I cannot match him mind-for-mind, I provide the humanity that he has rejected. When bravery fails his clients, it is I who is there, offering a kind word to the dispirited. Perhaps I will draw scorn for this, but I question whether he would have quite so many female clients if not for me? Not once have I seen them turn to him for emotional support during a case! It's as if they instinctively realise that he exists for the investigation, not them.

A feeling of uselessness enveloped me. I may not be able to recognise a heap of ashes as belonging to some Mr Jones who lives on Ludgate Hill, but I can forge these connections like no one else.

After breakfast, we returned to the coach and I saw that the governess, Miss Chalker, had not returned yet. The driver took the reins, and she still was not there.

"Driver! Wait!" I cried out. "Miss Chalker... The young lady! We're leaving without her."

"What on earth are you talking about?" said a man sitting near me. He was man I'd noted earlier, who wore a garlic flower as a boutonnière. "There's no Miss Chalker here. Never was."

"Stop!" I insisted as the driver cracked his whip. "We can't leave her here!"

I leapt to my feet, but a strong hand held me back. "Let it be," commanded Holmes, a strange look in his eyes. "She hasn't been taken by vampires."

I confessed that I was aware of this literature and its copycats, but the extent of his interest surprised me.

"Ignorance of such matters is to be lauded!" he snapped. "Unless, of course, it should have bearing on a case. I have devised a theory that states that we have at least two types of memory. One that stores information for a short time, and another one much longer. How else might I recall facts that I wish to possess while disregarding some of the drivel you throw at me?"

"I say, Holmes...!"

He continued without the smile that indicated his usual tolerance of me. "As the master of my own mind, knowledge of these facts is mine to manipulate and control. I deduced that when travelling through Romania, a country which has recently captured the imagination of the British public, I should be aware of the delusions that may be clouding my companions' minds. Afterwards, I shall forcefully dispel them!"

The 'bus had started moving while we were talking. I sat down just before the horses broke into a trot. There was just one thing that saved me from the pits of despair and that was knowing Sherlock Holmes himself had ordered me to sit down. He knew something I did not, and I had gradually become accustomed to the way he worked.

Even so, I sat there for the next hour or so, worrying about Miss Chalker. There was no obvious explanation for either hers or Holmes' behaviour. I considered they might be having some kind of affair, but struck that idea off immediately. Instead, I thought to provoke Holmes into telling me what he was planning.

"'No man is an island, entire of itself '," I told him, taking just a small amount of satisfaction in the fact that his feeble grasp of literature would not allow him to place the quote.

"It seems you feel as though you have outwitted me?"

I stopped and stared at my companion. Although I was proud of myself for the previous quote, I had in no way indicated my inner delight.

"It was your body language," he explained. "As unsubtle as any other man's."

At that point, I began to seriously contemplate returning to London. While we could certainly share lodgings, it was clear we couldn't share a space any smaller. In any case, I vowed that our rooms would be separate at the next stop, no matter how small the village.

Time passed as I watched the scenery pass through my field of vision. I assume that Holmes did the same, although I took care not to glance in his direction so much as once. When night fell, the sky was coloured like a rainbow and the sun outlined bare trees in pink light. I felt no thrill, just acceptance.

The driver pulled into a small village and handed the horses over to the hostler just before the sun dipped below the horizon. I disembarked the 'bus and, as I headed further into the village I could hear the sound of another person walking beside me.

"Doctor John Watson," said Sherlock Holmes.

I turned suddenly at the use of my full name, which may well have been his intention. Our hands touched.

"Sorry," said he, brushing his rough hands against my own. I felt friction from the multiple plasters that covered his fingers and then there was nothing, leaving me with a mere memory of the one word I never expected to hear from him.

"Well! Well, it's nothing!" I said, moving briskly towards the inn. It was incidentally, in a direction away from Holmes. "We should find a place to board before it gets much darker."

"A trivial matter. The inn is over there," he deadpanned, acknowledging my feint.

And so I avoided the foundation of what had happened and not been said. A touch like that from Sherlock Holmes is so out of the ordinary that its meaning is clear. However, any romantic thoughts I had encountered in the presence of my companion had always been swiftly set aside. I valued his brilliant mind above all else and his rejection of love for higher goals was part of this. The single-mindedness with which he pursued logic and truth to the exclusion of all other human intimacy was the very thing that drew me in. It would have to be an extraordinary event that could bring us two together. And yet I could help but ask myself, even as the thought attracted me; if Holmes were capable of love, would I still recognise him as my dear friend?

***

At the next stop, I still felt uneasy about Miss Chalker's disappearance. I glanced over as my dear friend met me at the breakfast table, where we greeted each other as if we hadn't seen the other in some hours.

"You seem worried. Let me assure you I'm on the scent."

I looked at him, my eyelids heavy. The previous night had not eased my worries and it concerned me that I was so easy to read and I told him so.

"As you note details about my life for your reminiscences, so I am noting details about you. In my head, of course." He smiled, his mouth curving upwards, but his eyes dark.

Until the end of breakfast, Sherlock Holmes was staring out of the inn into the snow, although not absently. Even now, he was thinking about the case. I wondered if I could learn anything from his posture. One hand rested in his lap and the other he rested his chin upon. For a second I wondered if there was any chance he might be thinking of me rather than the missing governess, but I knew there was precious little hope of that.

On the 'bus, Holmes did not sit next to me. Instead, he took a seat on the roof, exchanging with a passenger who had paid even less than we had. This did not concern me as I was not only used to dealing with his whims back in Baker Street, but was now coming to terms with what sharing space with him on a more intimate basis was like.

Inside, there was silence. Every now and then, a traveller would cross themselves fearfully. Others clutched their crucifixes tightly. Not one of them averted their eyes to look at another passenger.

We were in a mountainous region close to Russia when the 'bus stopped. In the doorway, I could see the outline of the driver, who was holding a pistol, aimed at myself. His finger was already on the trigger.

I immediately whipped out my own and stood up, my senses in overload. We stood there for what seemed like minutes, our guns aimed at each other. I didn't take my eyes off the barrel and the way his fingers wrapped around the trigger. I would have taken my best shot, but the risk of hitting a fellow passenger in such close quarters was too great. As the seconds ticked by, I began to consider it our best chance.

Suddenly, Holmes appeared from behind and tackled him. In the ensuing struggle, the driver's gun was knocked free and I made a dash for it. Once it was in my possession, I unloaded the rounds at speed and turned to Holmes' aid. He didn't need my help further; there was a short struggle and Holmes was the one left standing.

"Watson? May I reintroduce you to Miss Chalker, otherwise known as Piotr Mendeleev, our Russian spy!" He pointed to the driver at his feet and I could see the facial resemblance immediately.

"Amazing Holmes!" I enthused, still shaking. "However did you know?"

"The first clue was his manner of dress. As 'Miss Chalker', he told some of the gentlemen that he was a governess, but I clearly perceived that was not the case. He dressed as someone who had never met a governess might imagine they dress, but it was not truly convincing. His dress was expensive and impractical. Furthermore, his hands were rough and worn, a deep contrast to his clothing," said he.

Holmes must have confirmed his deductions when he helped him from the carriage. "But what went wrong?" I asked.

"It seems he must have recognised me and knew that I was on his trail. He murdered the driver in cold blood and took his place. Our travelling companions, their heads filled with tales of superstitions and vampires were easily compelled to remain silent. And finally, our spy, while a good actor, was not a trained driver. His change in manner with the horses was instantly recognisable to those who know."

"Good Lord!" My next question was a difficult one, but I had to know. "Why didn't you inform Lestrade of this?"

"I couldn't tell the inspector of my intentions. It had to be done as quietly as possible, without drawing attention to my plan. I simply had to cut across countries unfamiliar to the spy and then join his route. How obvious that he should choose to go through Romania, a country sympathetic to their cause! And that he should take a small omnibus rather than a means of travel that could draw attention. My only puzzlement is that Scotland Yard did not think of this." He smiled in such a way that this was clearly no great puzzle at all, which soon vanished. "I concede I thought the spy might go peaceably to his destination while I deduced the precise location of the documents. Alas, I never thought to consider the extent to which both the name and face of Sherlock Holmes are known! They soon realised that I was on the scent and that you--" He turned to me. "You, with your doctor's logic and intolerance for nonsense, were not going to go quietly. I chose to wait on the roof for him to make his move, knowing that our deaths were surely imminent."

I could see the conflict in his eyes. The pride at the extent his abilities were recognised across Europe coupled with the manner it had brought about an innocent person's death. I carefully brought my hand to Sherlock Holmes' own and felt no resistance. 

 


End file.
